Never Crossed My Mind
by BelieveYouAre
Summary: When I was 10 years old, my parents admitted me to a mental institution. I've hated them since. I am Kyle Broflovski, a 16 year old boy, who, 6 years later, is still sitting in a nut house from 12 to 12. When I met Stanley Marsh, I nearly made the kid cry on his first day. But when the time came, it never crossed my mind that he'd be the one I left behind; my one regret.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I was not the creative genius who created South Park, so, no. I do not own South Park. I only own this story. I also do not own the movie: Girl, Interrupted; which is what most of this story is based off of, just with the South Park characters.**

** I hope you enjoy!**

"_Who the hell are you! Why is your stuff on _Jamie's _bed!"_

"I don't know! I don't know who you're talking about!"

I pulled the desk chair away from the wall, and jammed it under the doorknob. The door shook and rattled as the security guards tried to gain access.

_"Where's Jamie!"_

The door flew open, sending the chair skidding across the floor.

"Let him go," Richard demanded.

I kept the black-haired boy cornered. I stared at Richard, my eyes damp with tears that wouldn't spill.

_"How did he do it? How did he do it, Richard?"_

Two guards hoisted me away from the shaking boy.

"Grab his legs!"

_"No! Where's Jamie? Where the hell is Jamie? Let me go! Let me go, goddamnit!" _

I screamed and kicked and clawed, but they kept coming. There were too many. But that didn't matter. Jamie mattered.

_"Where is Jamie! I need to see Jamie!"_

But I knew what had happened.

_"How? How did she do it? How!"_

"Open the door!"

My feet left the ground as the burly security guards hefted me into their arms. I flailed wildly in their grasp. Why? Why did she do it? How did she do it? Weren't they supposed to help her?

_"No! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Don't put me in there! NO!"_

My back hit the padded surface roughly. I heard a door slam, locks yanked, and then nothing. Silence. That's the only thing that was left for me to hear.

_Jamie._

**...**

I hate this place.

I really, really hate this place.

Spongy white walls stared back at me; silence clogged my ears.

They knew that I couldn't take it in here. It drove me absolutely _nuts. _I just can't stay still for this long. I can't sit, I can't handle the never ending _silence, _and I can't deal with being alone for so long.

And that's why I do odd things when I get thrown into the—_padded cells._

I scratched at my wrists, frustrated at the fact that the wristbands they put on me wouldn't _come off. _They kept me from drawing blood. I would do it on my stomach, or my thighs, but my wrists are the only things that truly give me release, control when they bleed.

I paced back and forth, my feet sinking into the plush white floor. I couldn't stay still. Damn it. The anxiety was eating away at me.

And, oh God, the _white. _It was _all white. _There were no colors to look at, nothing to bring the cell to life. It was giving me a headache.

"This is the song that never ends. It goes on and on my friends. Someone started singing it, not knowing what it was. And they'll continue singing it forever just because. This is the song that never ends…" I sang quietly under my breath.

Even that was driving me crazy.

All of it.

It just never _ends. _


	2. Chapter 2

I don't know how long I was in there.

It had been at least a week, I was sure of that. Two meals a day, delivered while I was asleep, and for every two meals is a new day.

But I didn't really give a damn how long I had been in there.

I just wanted to get _out._

My head perked at the sound of locks being undone. The door slid open to reveal a nurse, standing alongside the main doctor.

I stood on shaky legs, stumbling to the door. I knew the drill. They checked my wrists; wristbands still intact. My eyes; pupils were normal. Stomach, chest, back, and legs; no scratches. Hair and pockets; I had been taking my medication, not hiding it.

They cut my nails. For the time I was gone, I knew that I shouldn't have even bothered letting them grow out, I should have just chewed them off. They would only cut them again.

Where had I gone?

The basement.

I hid out in the goddamn basement for two weeks, just to get away from everything; the medication, the checks, the doctors, all of it.

I snagged food from the kitchen every once in a while, but it's not like I ate that much, anyway.

It was just gross. The basement was utterly disgusting, and absolutely scared the sh*t out of me. It was dark, it was dirty, and it was vile. I knew that I wasn't the first person to ever hide out in the basement, but I'm pretty sure that I'm the first to be found alive.

What made me think that?

Well it might have been the dried blood peeling away from the walls, or the chipped floor, where it was obvious that someone had pulled apart with their hands.

Yeah. That might have had a bit of an effect on me.

"Carl Paulsen," came another nurse's voice.

So, I guess it was nighttime.

The doctor and nurse left me in the hallway, knowing that I knew what I was supposed to do. "Another freak out like that, Kyle, and it will be longer next time," said the doctor over his shoulder.

I mock-saluted him, internally fearing his threat.

"Georgie Earlston," the nurse shouted. The mousy teenage boy quickly walked up, swallowed his nightly dose, and left for his room.

"Kyle Broflovski," she called. I trudged up to the counter, solemnly taking the Dixie cup she handed me, and the cup of water. I shook the Dixie cup, staring down at the rattling pills. Two blue, one red, one white, two green. Ha. I got a rainbow of pills. But, you know, just not all the colors.

"What did they add?" I asked, raising my eyebrows in confusion.

"Nothing, dear. Just take them, and head off to bed." she replied softly.

I shook my head. "Bullsh*t. Last time there was only one blue, and no red."

She looked slightly shocked that I remembered that, but quickly shrugged it off. "They gave you an extra blue to help you with your…episodes. And the red is just a stronger sedative to help you sleep."

I sighed, but downed the pills anyway, washing them away with the water. I handed her the cups, and then walked off, already dreading the days ahead.

_Jamie…_

I groggily opened the door to my room, stumbling over to my bed as my head began to blur. God, those sedatives were strong.

Right before I drifted off, I heard a name I had never heard before.

_"Stanley Marsh,"_

I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

"_Checks," _the nurse said in a hushed voice.

I sighed. The sedative they gave me definitely worked faster, but it also burned off a hell of a lot quicker.

I closed my eyes, feigning sleep as the nurse shined her flashlight across the room. Once I heard the door click shut, I opened them to utter darkness, only shadows to keep me company.

I heard a groan to my left.

"Jesus Christ!" I gasped, jumping nearly a foot in the air. "Who's there?"

"Me," came a voice, thick with sleep.

"Wow. Because that gives me so much information," I muttered sarcastically.

"My name is Stan," said the boy.

"I'm Kyle," I replied.

He was silent for a moment. "Why do the nurses do that?" he asked.

"What? The checks?" At his affirmative noise, I continued. "They have to make sure everyone is in bed, sleeping, and alive."

_"Alive?" _he choked.

"Yep," I said, popping the 'p'. "So, what are you in here for? Try to kill someone?" I snickered.

"Er," he struggled for words. "Uh, well, sort of, um—"

"You tried to kill yourself," I stated monotonously.

He sighed. "Yeah,"

I turned my head toward his bed, even though he was nothing but a dark silhouette in the little light that shone from under the door. "Why? Trouble in paradise? Mommy and Daddy giving you a hard time?"

He growled under his breath. "Trouble at school," he hissed.

"Can't keep your grades up? The big kids pickin' on you?" I asked sarcastically.

"Yeah, bullies," he hissed. "Beat me up, called me a f*g, stole my stuff. They made my life a living hell."

"You gay?" I asked suddenly.

"Huh?"

"Are. You. Gay?" I repeated slowly.

"Uh," I heard the sheets rustle and the bed creak as he shifted. "Yeah,"

"…'kay," I said simply.

"I believe suicide is one of the most selfish acts a human can perform," I told him.

"Shut the hell up. I lost hope, was sick of everyone and everything. And don't act so innocent. People talk, okay? I heard that you've tried to kill yourself before, too. More than once,"

"You didn't let me finish," I pointed out. "I have mixed views on many things, and suicide just happens to be one of them. Yes, I do believe that suicide is selfish. But I also believe that sometimes, people really don't have anyone who's there for them. They are completely, utterly, 100% alone, and it really wouldn't matter if they killed themselves, because no one would really care. The people around them would just be upset that they have to clean up the mess."

"You have people who care about you," he accused. "What about your family, your friends? The people around here all seem to like you pretty well."

"My parents are idiot b*stards who I never want to see again. And everyone around here just want someone to follow, someone who's not afraid to do something. They're all crazy. We're all crazy. That's why we're all in a nut house."

"…Why are you here?" Stan asked tentatively.

My hand found the pack of cigarettes under my pillow. I pulled one out, sticking it in my mouth and striking it with my lighter. Goddamn, it was hard to keep a lighter here. Richard was always taking it from me, saying that I wasn't supposed to have it unless I was under supervision.

I blew smoke from my mouth, watching it turn the black to a runny gray.

"I don't remember. A couple of things, I think. My parents brought me in when I was ten, haven't been outside, since. I have bipolar disorder, I know that. And OCD, I'm pretty sure. They keep whatever else I got on file."

Stan sighed.

I took a drag of my cigarette, letting the smoke flow out of my nose and mouth.

"Can I ask you one more question?" he asked in a small voice.

"Shoot," I said.

_"Who's Jamie?"_


	4. Chapter 4

I froze, cigarette in mouth.

"He's my best friend," I said in a low voice.

"Someone told me that he died, that he, uh, killed himself while you were gone."

I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was hoping, asking for the answer I had been denied before. "Did anyone mention how he did it?"

"They said that he hung himself," Stan said softly.

_So that's how he did it, _I thought morbidly.

"Did they say anything else?" I asked.

"They said something about 'across the street' and 'up the road'. I don't know what that means, though," he told me, puzzlement clear in his voice.

I flicked on the lamp beside my bed, blinking away the flashes of light that danced across my vision.

I finally got a good look at the kid.

He was tall-ish, with black hair that fell over his forehead and cerulean blue eyes. He was definitely bigger than me, but I wasn't big whatsoever. His skin was slightly flushed with a natural tan, flawless.

I pulled up my sleeve. Ignoring his gawking look, I raised an eyebrow at him. I pulled my finger across my wrist. "Across the street," I told him. I traced the underside of my forearm, from my wrist, to the hollow of my elbow. "Up the road,"

"Wh-what happened?" Stan breathed.

"It's rude to stare, you know?" I snapped.

"S-sorry," he stammered.

"Whatever," I mumbled.

"How—how did you get those?" he gasped.

"I haven't been outside in six years, dumba**. I had to find a way out, somehow. It just didn't work like I thought it would." I said lowly. "I tried cutting my arms, hanging myself, hiding my pills and taking them all at once. I even resorted to killing myself by severe food allergy."

Stan cocked his head. "What?"

I sighed. "I am severely allergic to chocolate, which freakin' sucks, by the way. So, I ate a sh*t load of it, almost died, and woke up in the hospital."

"I hated that. When I woke up in the hospital, it was the worst feeling in the world. The people at school always told me that I was never good enough, that I was a failure, I couldn't do anything right. And waking up after I tried to kill myself, I felt it all over again. I had failed. I couldn't even kill myself!"

My head swiveled around to face the door as it flew open. A smiling nurse poked her head in the room.

"Checks," she said. Her eyes narrowed as she saw us sitting up, the smile disappearing from her face as if it had been magically wiped away.

"What are you two doing up?" she asked.

I smiled sweetly. "I was just helping Stanley get back to sleep, Rolanda. Sorry if we worried you."

She shot me a disbelieving look, but left, anyway.

"Why—" he began, but I cut him off before he ould ask anything else.

"Just go to sleep, Stan."

I turned off the light.


	5. Chapter 5

The flame flickered to life, striking the head of my cigarette.

I inhaled, breathing out through my nose. The smoke drifted across the room in gray wisps. Stan sat across from me, peering at me curiously. I stared back at him with dull eyes and a bored expression.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." I grumbled dryly.

Stan rolled his eyes at me, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "What crawled up your a** and died, grumpy? You seemed fine with me last night."

I sat back in the chair, flicking ashes from my cigarette to the floor. I couldn't help but feel down, I just couldn't. Sometimes I was hyper and happy, and sometimes I just fell into periods of depression and just wanted to sleep.

The hypomania episodes tend to happen more often, but I can become really annoying and irritating to others if it gets too bad, and if they snap, it tends to bring me down a few notches, sometimes a few too many.

And then there were the depression episodes, where all-in-all, I really just felt helpless and tired.

"Hellooo?"

I snapped back into reality to find a worried Stan waving his hand in front of my face.

"Dude, seriously, are you okay?" he wondered.

I nodded curtly at him, curling up in the TV room chair. Stan just watched with an odd expression as I rested my head on the arm of the chair. My eyes drifted close, my mind becoming fuzzy.

I heard Stan say my name, once, twice.

And then I heard nothing at all.

**...**

"Kyle?"

I opened my eyes groggily, coming face to face with Stan's worried face. I sat up, rubbing at my eyes and yawning. I looked around; we were still in the TV room, but now, several patients were staring at us.

"Down again, Kyle?" Shirley, an old woman with curly gray hair and a soft face asked. I was almost positive that she had Tourettes Syndrome, and some of her tics had been disrupting her life to the point where she admitted herself to a mental hospital for help.

Yeah. People talk to me.

I nodded my head, frowning, still exhausted.

Stan gave me a 'wtf' look. "Dude, what the hell?"

"Sorry," I grumbled, a bit pissed at his abrupt rudeness.

"When he has a depressive episode, he's always tired. Don't be annoyed, sometimes he just falls asleep when he's like this. He doesn't mean to," Shirley told him lightly.

"Thanks, Shirley." I gave her a soft smile. You just couldn't help but fall in love with the woman, even during her outbursts, especially when she was always apologizing even though it wasn't her fault.

"So, honey," she said, striking a conversation. "Where'd you go?"

I sighed. "The basement,"

Her baby blue eyes widened, her mouth forming a shocked 'o'. "I heard it's like a hell down there."

I nodded shortly, laying my head back down onto the chair arm. "It is; there's blood and rats and sh*t. It scared the hell outta me. It's worse than Jesse's mind."

She patted my arm, giving me a sympathetic smile. "We've all been there, sweetie. We're all screwed up, and there's nothing we can do."

"—sh*t!" she suddenly exclaimed. A light blush touched her cheeks. "Sorry," she murmured.

I brushed it off, already slipping back into unconsciousness. Before I fell asleep, her words repeatedly ran through my mind.

_"We're all screwed up, and there's nothing we can do."_


	6. Chapter 6

_ "Mommy, daddy, where are we going?" I chirped, wiggling in my seat. This drive was taking too long, I had to _move.

_ "It's a surprise, sweetie," Mommy replied softly, her eyebrows drawn together and her face twisted in a grimace. Daddy's face was set like stone, hard and cold._

_ "Dad?" I asked tentatively. "Can we go to Clark's tonight?"_

_ "I don't think so, Kyle," he told me. "We're busy tonight. It's part of the surprise."_

_ I sighed, sitting back in my seat and drumming my fingers against my knee impatiently. I peered through the car window, shaking as my seatbelt forced me to stay put. We pulled up a hill and into a long, wide parking lot. I squinted at a sign as we drove past. I easily read the word _hospital_._

_ "Mommy, why are we at the hospital?" I asked, cocking my head in confusion._

_ "Because we have something to drop off, honey. We'll be quick, I promise."_

_ As the car stopped, I quickly pressed the button on my seatbelt, releasing my body from the safety restraints. I pushed the car door open, jumping down and bouncing on the balls of my feet to keep myself occupied, humming some song I'd heard on the radio under my breath._

_ Mom grabbed my hand, pulling to me to glass double doors that lead inside to the hospital. I smiled as we walked up to the front desk. The secretary was a small brunette with soft features and a bright smile that mirrored mine._

_ "Hello, ma'am," she said politely. "How may I help you?"_

_ "I called earlier last night about my son," Mommy said._

_ I looked up at her with a puzzled expression. "Mommy, I thought you said that we had to drop something off?"_

_ She looked down at me sadly, pity burning in her eyes. "We are, honey."_

_ Dad stood silently behind us. _

_ The lady behind the desk looked at me worriedly. "Can I get your name?"_

_ "Sheila Broflovski, and my son is Kyle Broflovski."_

_ The woman clicked and typed away at her computer, looking at me quickly and then back to Mom._

_ "Is he being admitted?" she asked softly. _

_ Mommy nodded curtly, and my smile dropped, being replaced by a confused line. "Mommy, what's going on?"_

_ She crouched down until she was eye level with me. "Kyle, sweetie, you're going to be staying here for awhile. These people are going to help you, okay? This is for you, baby. I promise,"_

_ Tears burned my eyes. "Mommy, I don't wanna stay here. Please don't leave me here, I wanna go home with you and daddy," my voice trembled._

_ "I'm sorry, baby," she said sadly._

_ Someone grabbed my hand, and I looked up to see the woman from behind the desk looking down at me, smiling sadly. "Hello, sweetie. My name's Samantha, but you can call me Sammie. I'm going to take you to your room, okay? Do you wanna say goodbye to your parents?"_

_ "No," I whimpered. "No, I don't wanna go! Mommy, mommy, don't go! Daddy, no!" _

_ Mommy and Daddy watched me as they walked to the door, saying they loved me and that it would be okay, that they would be back for me._

_ "No!" I screamed. "No, don't go! Please! Mommy, daddy! Don't leave! Don't leave!" Tears raced down my cheeks, wetting my neck and shirt. I shook my hair out of my eyes. I tugged on my hand, trying to run toward Mommy and Daddy. _

_ The lady, Samantha, pulled me toward another room, farther away from the door and farther away from my parents. I screamed and thrashed and cried. As we made our way deeper into the hospital, men and women in white uniforms stopped to look, but then continued on their way, as if they had seen the same thing before. _

_ Sammie pulled me into a room. She sat me down on the bed, holding me by my forearms. "Shhh," she murmured. "It's okay, Kyle. Calm down, please, calm down."_

_ I sat still, chest heaving and eyes running. Sammie wiped away my tears with her thumbs, but couldn't do much for the ones that followed. _

_ "You're going to be okay, Kyle, I promise," she told me. _

_ "They left me!" I cried. "They really left me!"_

_ "I know, honey. But they're just trying to help you get better. How about this? I'll be your family. I can be like, your sister, or something." _

_ I sniffled, but nodded slowly. _

_ She ruffled my hair. "Okay. Now, go to sleep, 'cause the doctor's gonna want to see you when you get up."_

_ And as I fell asleep, all I heard was my mother's voice as a whisper in my head._

_ "…we have something to drop off…"_

I opened my eyes with a gasp.


	7. Chapter 7

"Whoa, dude!" Stan exclaimed. His hands shot out to catch me as I fell from the chair, grabbing my arms as I hit the ground with a _thump._

"You okay?" he asked worriedly.

I nodded my head, shaking. I stood, sitting back down. I rested my head in my head, tangling my fingers in my hair and tugging slightly. Stan watched me with alarmed eyes. Tears burned behind my eyelids, my lip trembling.

Oh, God, no.

I broke down in front of everyone, something I hadn't done in a while.

I guess we're all crazy, we've all had breakdowns in front of others. But I was supposed to be the strong one. I was supposed to stay sane and stable for everyone here. For Shirley, for Sammie, for _me._

I felt a hand on my arm, and I looked up to see Sammie kneeling next to me. She rubbed her hand up and down my back, knowing that I hated this; the weakness, the vulnerability; the exposure.

"Ky," she said softly. "Will you tell me what happened?"

"I fell asleep," I whispered. "And then I saw it again. I saw my parents dropping me off."

"Oh, honey," she murmured, giving me a one-armed hug. "They aren't here, I am. You're going to get out of here one day, and you're going to live your life the way you should have before."

"They never came back," I sobbed, hating myself or how broken I sounded. "They left me here to rot."

"No, no, no," she cooed. "They brought you here because they weren't strong enough to take care of someone so amazing, so beyond their abilities. They don't deserve someone as wonderful and special as you, okay? I'm always going to be here for you, we all are always going to be here. We're your family, not the b*stards that deserted you."

I stood, giving her a lasting hug and saying that I was tired, and was going to my room to go back to sleep.

I shut the door behind me, leaning against it for a second and knowing that, although I loved Samantha like a mother, it wasn't enough. There was nothing here for me, nothing but a few friends and acquaintances. And Blake, Blake was only here to make my life a living hell, to torture my very existence.

I had to stop this.

I had to end it.

I put a hand to my chest, trying to control my breaths and keep them even. I jammed the desk chair under the door. Pushing away from the door, I shuffled over to my bedside table. I flipped the table on its side, searching the bottom for the hollow crack I knew was there.

There it is.

Snatching a rusted penny from my bedside table drawer, I used it to dig the shiny piece the metal out of the crack and into my hand. I gave it a remorseful glance, but could also feel my stomach flutter with nervous anticipation.

Was this the way to go? Should I really wait until I bled out? Or should I try it another way? I'm pretty sure I still have a packet of M&M's hidden somewhere, but it would take too long. I don't have a rope, so hanging myself is entirely out of the picture. I couldn't drown myself unless I could get into the bathing room by myself without someone watching me.

This was it.

I slid the blade across my wrist, knowing it wasn't enough to kill myself, but enjoying the release.

My head swiveled around as I heard a knock at the door.

I swiped savagely at my wrists, knowing that this had never worked before, so why even try?

Because if I don't try, then it will never happen.

"Kyle, can I come in?" Stan asked, his voice muffled by the wooden door.

I continued to stare at the door, my hand working the blade.

His knocking became more frantic, the doorknob shaking. "Kyle?" he called. "Kyle, open the freaking door."

I whimpered, and hated myself for it.

It sounded weak.

I sounded weak.

The door swung open, no doubt leaving a lasting hole in the wall from the force. Stan stood with wide eyes, frozen to the spot.

"Don't tell," I whispered. "Don't tell,"

Stan moved toward me, his face panicked and his eyes wild.

"Oh my God," he breathed. "Oh my God, Kyle. What the hell did you do?"

My vision blurred.

My ears buzzed.

My skin tingled.

And I smiled.


	8. Chapter 8

_Beep…beep…beep…_

I hate that sound. That sound meant another failure, another breath, and another day.

Goddamnit.

My chest tightened. I opened my eyes, squinting against the harsh brightness of the room. I propped myself up on my arms, ignoring the sharp pain that shot up my forearm.

_Beep..beep..beep..beep..beep.._

I buried my face in my pillow, gradually slowing my breathing and heart rate. Turning over, I looked to the door to see that it was open, and someone was approaching the room.

I groaned, letting my head fall back onto the thin pillow wearily.

"I see you're awake," Richard said from the doorway.

"No sh*t, Sherlock," I rasped.

"This is the seventh time I've seen you in here, Kyle. We may as well just give you the room," he joked lightly. "But I have to ask, why so sudden? Why _now _of all times? You knew that it wasn't going to work, that Stanley was already at the door, yet you still tried it."

"If you don't try, you'll never know." I said dryly.

"Wise," he commented. Richard looked over his shoulder, nodding his head. Looking back to me, he said, "I'll leave you two alone while I go get the doctor."

Stanley freaking Marsh walked through the door.

And as he opened his mouth to speak, I beat him to it.

"Screw you,"

Stan closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. "Look, I know you're upset but—"

"Upset!?" I exclaimed. "I am way past _upset! _I m goddamn _pissed!_"

Stan's face dropped. "Kyle—"

"You should know," I hissed. "You should know what it's like to wake up in a hospital bed, knowing that you failed. To know that you're just what they always said; a failure. There are some people in life who just don't want you in this world, and in my case, that's me. I don't want to be here, so why should I have to?"

"Kyle, I—"

"You what? You thought you were helping me? Because you weren't,"

"I-I'm sorry," he choked.

I leaned my head back against the wall, sighing. I could feel the anger leave my body, exhaustion taking its place. "Whatever,"

And with that, I succumbed to the hazy darkness known as sleep, Stan's words replaying softly in the back of my mind.

_"I'm sorry,"_


	9. Chapter 9

Although there was nothing to see but darkness, no light for my eyes to absorb, I refused to close them. By closing them, I was succumbing to the terrors that sleep could bring me. I didn't want to face another episode, and until I was closer to hyperactive, I wasn't planning on going to sleep.

I mean, how long could it take?

I didn't mind just staring into the darkness, anyway. In truth, I liked the dark. When it was dark, it was almost like sleeping, but you were able to control your thoughts. Unless you let them wander. If you think about it, there could be a psychotic killer standing over me right now. He just escaped from the mental ward in the Denver Prison and came all the way to see me. His presence is like a shocking draft of cold air, snaking underneath the thin sheets of my bed and roaming over my clammy skin. My breathing labored, I look around frantically, but I can hardly see the outline of my hand in this thick darkness. My hands shot up, but even my frantic movements were unable to locate his looming body, riddled with mutilated flesh and caving scars. He whispered his promises for destruction into my ear; my destruction. I chuckled softly. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all. It will hurt, he swore, but there will be medication, lots of it. Okay, I said. Do it. He pulls a silver Swiss Army knife from his chunky combat boot, bringing it slowly and carefully to my skin. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, hoping for death and expecting nothing less.

There was a sudden, dull pain in the side of my head. I opened my eyes. What? I winced. There it was, again.

I turned my head to the side.

"What the hell?" I hissed as something hit my forehead.

"We need to talk," Stan said finally.

"What about?" I feigned cluelessness.

"You know," he lowered his voice as if we were discussing where to hide a body, "the suicide thing."

"Wasn't a suicide thing," I gritted my teeth. "It was a failed attempt."

"...Yeah, um, that. I'm sorry, Kyle, but I couldn't just let you kill yourself off like that. This is a hospital, a place for people to get better. Why don't you get better, Kyle?"

"I'm not crazy," I said. "I don't need to get better."

"You don't have to be crazy to need help," he told me. "Sometimes, the most sane people in the world are the ones who need the most help!"

"Don't feed me that sh*t."

"I'm not-"

"But you are. You're just like them. Always wanting me to be happy and accept help and just be perfect. Everyone expects so much, it just isn't fair. They always want me to eat and sleep properly while being social and participative, but I just can't do it. I'm not a good person, Stan. I've hurt people, bad. I hurt them when they did nothing to me, just because other people have. My family turned their back on me, my friends forgot all about me, and yet I'm still here! I'm still okay!" I looked over to where he lied on his bed. "Aren't I?"

Stan was silent. I sighed.

"It's okay to let people in sometimes," his voice was soft.

"But when you let people in, they hurt you. It's like giving someone a gun, telling them to point it at your heart and trusting they won't pull the trigger." I shivered.

Stan's bed creaked as he moved around on it.

"What are you doing?" I asked quietly.

He didn't answer, and the creaking stopped. Suddenly, the bed space beside me sank and squealed as extra weight was added to the old springs.

"Stan-" I gasped, panicked.

"Relax," he coaxed softly. "I won't pull the trigger on you, I swear."

Hesitantly, I moved closer to his body, warm and toned. He wrapped his arms around my torso, his head atop my hair. I leaned my head against his bare chest.

I don't know what it was, but there was something about him that just whispered words of safety into my ears, brought a sense of security to my mind.

And so for the rest of the night, we just laid there. Eventually, Stan drifted off to sleep, the rise and fall of his chest slowing down and light snores escaping his mouth. I ran my pale fingers along his tan digits and just thought to myself, maybe this could work. Maybe.


End file.
